Home
by alohamora080
Summary: In the silence of a warm summer night, ten families find their place at home. Written for Morning Lilies.


31 June 2022

20:47, The Burrow, Devon

The atmosphere was dimming, specks of starlight already flickering into existence. The light, summer breeze was whistling through the overgrown terrain, rustling blades of grass and rearranging leaves. Silvery moonlight glistened palely against the skyline, exuding just barely enough light to discern the large, lopsided structure sitting wonkily in the midst of the meadow.

Six or seven chimneys stood, barely balancing, on top of its red roof, and a very uneven sign was wedged into the ground beside the entrance. "The Burrow," it read.

Around the front porch lay an untidy heap of rubber boots and several very rusty cauldrons. A crowd of mud-splattered chickens huddled together by the broom shed.

Inside the Burrow, Molly Weasley hummed to herself as she fixed cups of tea for herself and her husband, who was snoozing contentedly in the living room, newspaper strewn across his chest like a blanket. Carefully, she balanced the tea service on a tray and swished out of the kitchen; past the mantel; past the staircase; past rows and rows of photos, new and old; until she reached her snug, welcoming armchair by the fireplace.

Chuckling softly, Molly peeled _The Daily Prophet_ away from Arthur's face, set his tea on the coffee table, and settled down into her chair, taking a small sip.

With a deep, soothing breath, she let her fingertips smooth out the wrinkles on the fifty-five-year-old furniture, the smallest of smiles tugging her lips upward.

This was home.

* * *

21:12, The Scamanders' Villa, Devon

Just over the hillside, a couple sat together at the edge of a grassy plane, which was completely uninhabited apart from their one small cottage at the very far end. Resplendent yellow sunflower plants garnished the endless field upon which the pair was settled, and the smattering of apple trees surrounding the cottage swayed lightly in the breeze.

Rolf Scamander applied the final touches to his sketchbook, leaning back to survey his work. Frowning slightly, he ran a hand through his dark locks. Then, he nodded in approval and shut the book with a snap, turning instinctively to his fair-haired wife, who was leaning against his shoulder, twirling a yellow flower petal between her soft fingertips.

Slowly, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Luna's eyes brightened immediately, and she reached over and took his hand. His large, knotted fingers squeezed her thinner, wispier ones, and she smiled.

Suddenly, the door to their small, timber-paneled cottage banged open, and two identical ten-year-old boys flew down the matted terrain, giggling loudly. Between them, they carried a large bucket of soapy water. Immediately, Rolf and Luna rose to their feet, grinning.

The family of four gathered in the middle of the turf. Luna put an arm around each of her sons, and nodded to Rolf, who flicked his wand at the bucket of water. Bubbles rose up from the foamy pail, one by one, filling the indigo sky and mingling with the soft wind. Lorcan and Lysander cried out in glee, fingers stretching up towards the bubbles. Luna beamed at her husband, who winked back at her.

And, so they stood together in the hush of a summer night, laughing loudly and reaching for the endless parade of bubbles against the evening sky.

This was home.

* * *

21:56, Shell Cottage, Cornwall

A few miles away, the cool, bubbly ocean water was lapping deliciously up against the sides of the cliff upon which Shell Cottage stood. The sky outside was now nearing a deep shade of indigo, and the smell of salt and fresh air fused together to create a soft aura of tranquility.

Sea shells were scattered all the way up the pathway to the small, friendly-looking bungalow, and tiny bulbs of golden light decorated the trees and gate in the front yard.

Seventeen-year-old Dominique Weasley rocked herself gently in the swing that hung from the front roof, watching the tide come and go. Her bright blue eyes moved from right to left, almost hypnotically. The hem of her pajama pants and the tips of her strawberry-blonde fringe fluttered in the breeze, but Dominique seemed not to notice.

There was a creak as the front door was propped open, and the tall, fair-haired silhouette of Louis Weasley slipped out onto the veranda. Hesitantly, he crossed the threshold and settled himself down beside his elder sister, watching her intently. For several beats of silence, neither one moved. Then, with a small sigh, Dominique rested her head against his shoulder, and Louis' arm looped protectively around her small shoulders. And, so, they sat in silence, watching the sea claim the sand.

Looking out from their bedroom window, Fleur nudged Bill, gesturing to the extraordinary sight of their children sitting quietly together. He looked up, eyes widening in wonder, and Fleur smiled, shaking her head.

This was home.

* * *

22:29, The Weasleys' Farmhouse, Cornwall

The sandy pathway down the coast continued from Tinworth down to the other end of Cornwall, where a charming, cream-colored farmhouse was located in the midst of a little thicket. The now luminous moonlight reflected enticingly off of the white bricks, causing them to gleam and glitter against the darkness of the tall, shadowy trees.

Inside, Audrey Weasley tucked a tub of laundry under her shoulder, flicking a few stray locks of auburn hair away from her eyes as she made her way into the sitting room, where the rest of her family was sprawled across the floor, conversing softly.

Percy looked up as she entered, and, spotting the basket in Audrey's arms, shook his head in indignation. Molly and Lucy jumped to their feet in unison, and, whilst Percy coaxed Audrey's attention away from the clothes she was holding, managed to successfully disentangle the basket from their mother's hands and push it to the far corner of the room.

Audrey smiled in spite of herself as Percy led her back to the middle of the expanse, where Molly and Lucy were waiting together, grinning.

And, so, in the refuge of their modest abode, Audrey sat with her husband and daughters and talked. Simply talked, for hours.

This was home.

* * *

23:44, The Lupins' Flat, Wiltshire

The luminosity of the moon dimmed slightly as a thin shadow of gray cloud slithered in front of it. But, the small, worn out Wiltshire flat was so dark already that the absence of the moon was scarcely missed by its two inhabitants.

The candle on the coffee table guttered violently in the breeze from the broken sitting room window. Teddy Lupin sighed in annoyance, placing his palms carefully around the wavering flame and allowing it to gain momentum for the ninth time that night. Then, he turned back to the report he was writing, nibbling intently on the back of his quill.

Gradually, however, fatigue started to creep up into his mind, fogging up his senses. His eyes began to droop on their own accord, and Teddy had to shake himself several times to keep focused.

Gentle footsteps from behind caused Teddy to swivel around in his seat. Victoire was tying her sheer, white dressing gown loosely around her waist, eyes wide with concern. Leaning down to brush her lips to the top of Teddy's head, her eyes flicked from the half-filled report on the coffee table, to the once-again vigorously sputtering candle, back to Teddy's world-weary expression.

Exhaling softly, Victoire made to return to the bedroom once again, but Teddy quickly leaned forward and caught her wrist, his gaze suddenly firm. Victoire turned around slowly, opening her mouth, but before she could say a word, Teddy pressed his lips to hers. Victoire froze in surprise for a fraction of a second, before sliding her arms around his neck and pulling his head towards hers.

In a flash, Teddy had grabbed Victoire about the waist and lifted her onto their rugged, old couch. The report on the coffee table lay forgotten, and, with one final quiver of plea, the candle went out with a swish. Neither Teddy nor Victoire seemed to notice.

This was home.

* * *

00:13, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

A couple paces down the road, a platinum-haired teenager tossed and turned in his sleep. With a sudden groan of frustration, Scorpius pushed his covers away and leaped out of his bed. Very carefully, he pried open the door to his bedroom and padded stealthily down the lantern-studded hallway.

Malfoy Manor's grand, gold-plated staircase glowed in the fuzzy candlelight, and Scorpius took care to step within the shadows as he tiptoed down the stairs, one by one.

The large sitting room looked even more daunting than it usually did, in the darkness. Everything, from the chiseled, oak furniture to the eerie-looking artifacts on the mantel, seemed to loom over Scorpius, daring him to come further into expanse. Swallowing heavily, Scorpius crept towards his favorite dark green settee in the corner of the room and curled himself into its cozy folds.

Almost as though by second-nature, he reached into the pocket of his pajamas and pulled out a decaying photograph, turning it over in his palm. In the dim light, Scorpius could just make out Albus' and Rose's blurred outlines, as they threw their arms around his shoulders, ruffling his hair.

Scorpius lips curved upwards, ever-so-slightly.

Then, with a small sigh, Scorpius shoved the photograph back into his pocket.

Albus had invited him over for the summer as per usual, but Scorpius had declined because he knew that, invariably, Rose would come around to visit. He and Rose had not had a falling-out this bitter since the wee years of their friendship, and Scorpius missed her. Nonetheless, he was not about to fuel the fire by showing up at the Potters' doorstep.

His eyes wandered to the second floor landing. A thin strip of golden shone from under his grandparents' bedroom door. So, his grandparents weren't sleep. Scorpius raised his eyebrows, turning next to another set of doors just off of the foyer. Through the stillness of the night, Scorpius could just hear his mother's muffled cough and the soft rustling of his father's newspaper.

Scorpius leaned back, blinking rapidly. Somehow, it was comforting to know that he wasn't the only one still awake in Malfoy Manor.

This was home.

* * *

00:30, The Weasleys' Victorian, London

Rose took care not to make too much noise as she popped open a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans in the kitchen and entered the conventional parlor, where her parents and brother were all slumped across various different parts of room. Ron and Hugo were both dozing off by the fireplace, a jumbled chessboard between them. Her mother, meanwhile, was sleeping on her armchair, the television control hanging loosely from her fingers. Carefully, Rose extricated the remote from between mother's fingers, and pointed it at their twenty-five year old television set. It went off with a small pop.

Yawning, Rose sunk down into the sofa and kicked her feet up onto the nearby ottoman. Pulling forward her half-completed Transfiguration essay, Rose dipped her quill into her ink bottle and began filling in the rest of the paragraph.

Rose reached out and grabbed her textbook, flipping it open to the bookmark. Suddenly, a photograph fell out from between the wrinkled pages. Frowning slightly, Rose picked it up, holding it up to the light.

Rose, Scorpius, and Albus—all fifteen years of age—stood outside the Hogwarts Express on their first day of their fifth year at school, grinning at the camera. Rose smiled vaguely as she watched herself ruffle Scorpius's platinum-colored hair, much to his chagrin.

She tucked the photograph back into her textbook, flipping to another page. Then, she paused, biting her lip.

Quickly, Rose pulled out a new roll of parchment, dipped her quill into the bottle, and scribbled out,

_Dear Scorpius,_

Ron grunted loudly, turning over. A black bishop fell out of his hair. Hugo's eyebrows furrowed ever-so-slightly, and Hermione garbled out an admonition in her sleep. Rose had to bite back a giggle.

_We should talk._

This was home.

* * *

01:15, The Leaky Cauldron, London

In another part of London, the wireless radio in the corner of an empty pub was feebly stuttering out Celestina Warbeck's classics, and seventeen-year-old Alice Longbottom was beginning to regret taking on the night shift as group of four rowdy-looking wizards ambled in through front door, grinning toothily.

Biting her lip, Alice tucked her wet rag into the pocket of her apron and watched warily as the four boys plunked themselves down in front of her and demanded bottles of Firewhiskey. Alice averted her gaze, nodded, and scuttled into the back kitchen to fetch the drinks. Balancing the four bottles on a metal tray, Alice swished back into the diner. But, before she could set the bottles in front of them, the largest of the four men grabbed her hand, his eyes flashing greedily.

Panic rose up in Alice like bile. The tray and bottles fell to the floor with an earsplitting clatter. The man's grip on her wrist tightened, and a glint of anger crossed his expression. Alice struggled, her mind freezing. But, before she could so much as utter a single syllable, there was a flash of white, and suddenly, she was being thrown backwards, her scream dying in her throat.

Neville had flown into the room, wand held up and expression dark. The man who had grabbed her wrist now lay on the floor, stirring weakly, his comrades nowhere in sight. In an instant, Hannah, Kristen, and Frank were at her side. And, Alice let the tears flow as she folded herself into her mother's embrace. As her siblings soothed away her terror. As her father pressed a kiss to her forehead.

This was home.

* * *

01:48, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, London

Down the street, the Weasleys' usually loud, flashy, carnivalesque joke shop was looking uncharacteristically subdued in the nighttime. Its ordinarily colorful windows were boarded up, and its dazzling signs and displays were quiet and dark. It hardly resembled the swarming amusement park that it was during the day.

In the cramped, musty basement of the store, a family of four sat amongst a hodgepodge of cardboard boxes, small bits of parchment, unwrapped parcels, and dust. A single illuminated wand-tip bathed the small expanse in just enough light to distinguish the faces of the two adults and their teenage children. All were busy unpacking and organizing the latest shipment of supplies George had just ordered.

Roxanne Weasley watched with bated breath as her seventeen-year-old brother fumbled with the wrappings of a peculiarly small package. With a resounding ripping noise, Fred tore open the tiny parcel. For a moment, he frowned in confusion. Then, his eyes widened, lips parting slightly. From between the paper folds, he extracted a tiny, magenta name tag.

_Fred_

_Assistant at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes_

Fred looked up at his father, who was grinning widely. Then, with a strangled cry of exhilaration, Fred bounded forward and caught his father in a tight embrace. Roxanne and Angelina smiled as George patted his son's head, closing his eyes.

This was home.

* * *

02:11, Potter Manor, West Country

Several miles away, Harry Potter rubbed his eyes tiredly as he stumbled down the manor's winding, marble staircase and into the kitchen, sloppily tying the waistband of his robe into a knot. Grumbling under his breath, Harry wrenched open the kitchen window, and allowed the regal-looking eagle owl—which had been tapping on the glass for the preceding twenty minutes—to fly inside.

Dazedly, Harry untied the envelope from the owl's ankle and set a glass of water on the counter for it to drink. Grimacing slightly, he turned the letter over, squinting slightly as he attempted to discern the neatly printed writing on the front.

_To: Mr. James Sirius Potter_

Harry glanced fleetingly at the blurred outline of James's bedroom door on the second floor landing, ajar as always.

_From: Ragmar Dorkins, Manager of the Chudley Cannons_

Harry's bright green eyes went very wide. Not tearing his gaze away from the letter in his hand, he ushered the owl out the window, latched it, and hurriedly began the walk up the staircase to James's bedroom. Standing outside, he fingered the bronze doorknob hesitantly, not quite sure how to deliver the fate of his son's future. With a small sigh however, Harry crept inside.

James lay spread-eagle across his bed, mouth hanging wide open. With an exceptionally heavy grunt, James rolled onto his stomach, kicking his blanket to the floor. Harry fought back a laugh.

Very carefully, he stepped forward placed the unopened letter on his son's nightstand. Then, he reached down and picked up the forgotten blanket, strewing it across his son's body.

Harry left his son's bedroom with a small smile at his lips, proceeding to mechanically trace his way down the second floor corridor, so familiar was it to him. Harry paused for a moment outside Albus's bedroom door, peering inside and ensuring the visible rise and fall of the sheets which encompassed his sixteen-year-old son, before he continued down the hall.

Lily's bedroom door was closed as always, and Harry had learned to "Knock First," as the handmade sign on the door so blatantly proclaimed. Harry reached up and traced the messy lettering, mind flashing back to the day his eleven-year-old daughter had written it out. Harry grinned.

Ginny was awake when Harry finally crawled into bed beside her. She touched his shoulder, eyebrows contracting questioningly. But, Harry shook his head and Ginny nodded in understanding, leaning over and kissing his cheek.

There was really no way to put into words what he felt about Potter Manor and the people who lived there with him. Harry closed his eyes, squeezing Ginny's shoulder as she curled into his side.

This was home.

* * *

Sigh. I love these families so much. Anyway, this is a gift for Morning Lilies, who is quite possibly one of the most inspirational authors I've ever known, as well as—and it is a pleasure to say—one of my closest correspondents on this website. Morning Lilies, I hope you enjoy this!

To those who read this and (hopefully) liked it, I love y'all! Thank you so much!

Yours sincerely,  
Alohamora


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